The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(32)

“No.” Charlie said it in the way he said everything these days: with thinly veiled disgust.

“And what’s your name, sir?” the cop asked, and Tom found himself giving his name, address, Janice’s phone number and waiting as Chief Cooper verified the information and then called the police station to run a check of his criminal records, of which there were none. Finally, he put away his phone, then offered Tom his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t be too careful.”

“No worries. Thanks for checking up.” Perhaps you can do a cavity search next time, mate. Cheerio.

The chief nodded and walked back to the bag from which he’d come, and began throwing some jabs.

“I’m not boxing,” Charlie said. “It’s so stupid.”

“Fine,” Tom said. “Then sit here and watch. And don’t walk out, or I’ll have to call the nice officer over and report you as a missing child.”

Tom went into the locker room, changed out his teacher’s clothes and into boxing trunks and a faded Manchester United T-shirt. Sighed at his reflection in the mirror, then went out again.

He’d reserved the ring for an hour, naively thinking that Charlie might welcome a little instruction in self-defense. Back in the day, they used to pretend to spar. Back in the day when Charlie loved him. “Into the ring, mate,” he said, keeping his voice cheerful.

Charlie obeyed, his baggy pants making it difficult for him to get between the ropes. “All right, now, I thought I’d show you a few basic jabs and punches,” Tom said. “First thing, fighting stance. Relaxed, yeah?” He demonstrated, holding his hands up by his head, feet apart. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, because you want to be able to move. This is your space, and you own it.”

His unofficial stepson slumped to the floor of the mat and took out his phone, which began emitting irritating little burps and beeps. Tom went over and squatted in front of him. “Charlie? Pay attention, mate.”

“Why?”

“You might learn something.”

“It’s stupid,” Charlie muttered, going back to his game.

It was hard not to slap the stupid thing out of his hand. “Right,” Tom said. “So you move like this, always keeping your feet going. In, out, in, out. Just a little movement, very controlled, hands up by your temples, weight forward.”

Charlie wasn’t listening. And it was bloody embarrassing, talking to a kid who was clearly ignoring him, the eyes of the cop on them more than once. But they were here, and a boxing ring was one of the few places Tom knew what he was doing. “Jab, turning your hand, put your shoulder into it, and then, snap, back again to protect yourself.”

The computer game continued to chirp and beep.

Bollocks.

The clock slowed to a crawl, but that was the thing with kids, right? You couldn’t let them dictate everything. Or something.

After a lifetime, the endless hour passed, and Tom pulled on his sweatshirt.

“Let me know if you want a sparring partner sometime,” the cop called.

“Will do,” Tom said, raising a hand. “Thanks. Come on, Charlie. Off we go.”

The boy remained barely conscious, for all that he interacted with Tom, as they drove the short distance to Tom’s place. He unlocked the door and stood back as the kid went in.

“So I decorated a bit, tried to make it a little more homey than the last time you were here,” Tom said. “I bought some things for your room.” Was that a mistake, to call it Charlie’s room? He’d wanted him to feel like he had an option to Janice and Walter’s, that any time he wanted a place to go, he could come here.

Hadn’t happened yet. Despite the Tuesday afternoons, when Janice forced the lad to spend time with him more for her sake than his, Charlie hadn’t taken him up on the offer.

But now, to his surprise, the boy went upstairs, his feet thudding heavily on the stairs. Tom followed. Charlie glanced in at Tom’s room, which was bare bones at best, then went into the room across from it. This was the room Tom had worked to make appealing, and he said a silent prayer that Charlie would like it.

The walls were white; the bed was covered in a black comforter (Charlie’s favorite color, after all). A bureau from IKEA, which had taken seven hours to assemble, and him a mechanical engineer.

On one wall hung a Manchester United poster; once upon a time, Charlie had watched matches with him on the rare occasions that American television carried British football. On the bureau was the Stearman PT-17, the last model airplane he and Charlie had worked on together, still waiting to be finished. A bookcase filled with half of the young adult and science fiction novels the small bookstore in town had stocked, because Tom didn’t know what Charlie was reading these days. A collector’s edition of Lord of the Rings, just in case. The complete Harry Potter series, once beloved by the boy.

And then there were the photos. A shot of Charlie—his school picture from last year, one of those ghastly photos set against a gray background, Charlie’s face unsmiling and hard. Another of a younger Charlie, standing in front of a stream. Tom had taken him fishing—they’d caught nothing, but had a fantastic time throwing rocks into the water.

And on the nightstand, a photo of Charlie and Melissa, both of them smiling.

She’d had her flaws, absolutely, but she had certainly loved her son.